


#GameOf'Trónes - Book the First: Rager at Bielski's

by NewTyway



Series: #Go'T [1]
Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-06-07
Updated: 2015-06-09
Packaged: 2018-04-03 07:12:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,299
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4091872
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/NewTyway/pseuds/NewTyway
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A satirical take, as an allegory for today's (misguided) youth.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fashionably Early

“Fuck dammit, Bielski!” a gruff voice exclaimed to the king, “We have to pull our men off the front lines, this excursion into the shadow of Mount Fuckboy was just a massive cock measuring match with those fucking Tylandians! You’re not fit to run a fucking kingdom! I’m the true Bielski!” the man slammed his fists down on top of King Bielski’s desk, rattling the dumb useless dad joke gag gifts sitting on top, two of the motion sensitive toys activated, immediately causing one to make obnoxious farting noises, while the other began singing a parodied version of ‘Wild Thing’ by The Troggs. “Fucking answer me Bielski!” 

King Bielski sat in a comically large office chair, the kind any normal villainous businessman would sit in. His chair was turned away from the enraged man, facing a large bay window looking out towards the expansive kingdom he had built. He began clapping his hands as though the angry man’s profuse yelling was all in vain. He slowly turned the chair in an insidious manner, all the while still clapping while sporting a grin that could kill. 

The man now got his first glimpse of the king since last harvest, and it was plain to see why no one else in his kingdom hadn’t either. Bielski was a tall pale man, crooked jew nose, and he usually had a perpetually unshaven dirtstache, but now he had really let himself go. He now sported a small ponch, he had a patchy beard of dark brown and a mustache only a smalltime drug dealer would have, a wispy pencil stache, his hair had grown out to his shoulders and hadn’t been washed in what appeared to be months, half a bite of a dried up Italian submarine sandwich was entangled and stuck in his unkempt mess of hair, along with what looked like two mustard packets and a baby bird. 

“Are you saying you can run my country better than me, José?” Bielski finally spoke.

This caught the man offguard.

“W-well no, m’lord. I just…” 

“You just what?!” Bielski interrupted.

“I-uh… Sir, please, I was out of line to address you like th…”

“Guards!” Bielski interrupted once more, “Head off with his.”

“Sire, you mean ‘Off with his head’?” the door guard asked.  
Bielski contorted his smug face and nodded. 

“Guard!” Bielski called for a second guard to enter the room. “Head off his with as well.”

Without skipping a beat the second guard unsheathed a giant phallus shaped scimitar and beheaded the first guard, a violent spray of blood erupted from the newly formed stump that replaced the man’s melon. José saw this and instinctively shit himself with such force as to blow it out the seat of his trousers, all the while a fine mist of the plasma coated his face, along with everything else in the room. The guards headless corpse walked around with its arms outstretched as though it was reaching out for a hug momentarily before collapsing into a heap of gore on the oak floor.

“Pl-please sir, no!” José pleaded, he raised his hands to protect himself but the guard came down with the sword, amputating all of the fingers on José’s left hand and completely removing his right arm up to the elbow. No more sound came from José’s mouth as he stared slack jawed in shock at the lack of digits which now bequeathed him. 

The guard raised the sword once more above his head and let it fall, sinking deep into José’s skull. He turned the blade side to side, as he did a sickening cracking of skull bone was clearly audible. José’s eyes rolled upwards into the sockets and he began seizing. The guard tried pulling the sword out but it was lodged deep in José’s cranium, so he placed his boot on José’s face and pulled back as hard as he could on the handle. Instead of the blade being freed José’s face caved inwards, brain being extruded around the guard’s boot like molding clay.

Bielski had a smile on his face from ear to ear, his faced painted red from the blood. He simply wiped it off with his hands and signaled for the guard to remove the corpses and to get the maids to clean up his office. 

“Oh yeah, guard, don’t let anymore dickshits sneak into my confide, or I’ll José your ass too.”  
The guard nodded and began to exit.

“Wait, one more thing. Leave the blood and viscera on the walls, I needed a new paint job anyways.” 

As the guard left, a new figure entered the room, he was a robed figure with prayer beads and a bald head. Bielski’s spiritual advisor.

“Ah, yeah. Imashamed, it’s great to see you again. How was the pilgrimage through the Shitlord desert?” Bielski greeted the religious man with grandeur in his voice.

“It was…” he let out a sigh, “Great. Let’s talk about you drafting me into your terrible military, causing me to break my code of nonviolence, later. No one in the kingdom has seen you in a long time, m’lord. We need a public figure out there, giving the people hope. It’s chaos in the streets. There’s talk about a revolution. We don’t need this right now, we need to band together our forces and motivate them to drive the Fuckboys back to the mountain, before Mexican Winter arrives. Believe me Bielski, Mexican Winter is coming.”

Bielski looked up from his desk and nodded his head in understanding.

“Fine, I’ll make a public appearance. Show the people I still care, it’s just that after her death I haven’t been in the caring mood.” 

“M’lord, your Pacific Islander wife didn’t die, I actually saw her in her chambers as I came in. She actually looked content, does she even realize you’ve been absent from the throne this long, she seemed pretty oblivious?” the monk said.

“Oh shit, that’s right she didn’t die, I got her confused with Lori from The Walking Dead while I was really high one night. That was a great episode, remember when Coral had to…”

“Sir, I haven’t seen that episode yet…” the monk interrupted.

“Bro, that’s only like season three. Seriously? If you haven’t been keeping up with this shit from that long ago, you deserve spoilers.” 

As the two kept on arguing over plot detail of a feverishly bullshit television series a large flaming boulder, coated in tar and animal feces exploded through the brick wall of Bielski Castle, making a paste of the monk and throwing Bielski out of his bay window and thirteen stories downward. The bad news was he landed in a moat that surrounded the castle, the other bad news was it was crocodile infested. The good news being Bielski never paid anyone to maintain the moat or keep the crocodiles alive. 

The OTHER bad news being the three ton desk made of pure marble descended from the office into the moat behind him after he had hit the water.  
Right outside the kingdom a siege tower came into view, along with an army, hauling catapults, which were ceaselessly firing these flaming, shit coated, boulders into the city. Atop the tower stood the worst general the continent had ever been victim to behold…

Teddy. 

“Hehe, I knew that fuckboiii liked getting penetrated deep by me, hey squire, wanna free lightshow, bro? Maybe let me crash on your couch for like a week?" Teddy said in a lisp, as he lowered his binoculars, with a smirk on his face you’d want to punch off if you ever saw it. It seemed to be permanently stuck to his cock sucking face.


	2. Party Crashers

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> See, the accurate representations of each of my characters, who are reflections of people I know personally i.e. Roommates, coworkers, acquaintances, etc..., are also reflections of specific social archetypes in media today. They not only represent the true nature of the individuals in question, but also how I personally view society as a whole.

Tyler stood in the streets of his kingdom, one shoe off, exposing a dirty sock, his other shoe coated in what appeared to be vomit that was comprised of chili sauce and milk. His jeans were torn and faded, not that he had bought them that way, just that he was a dirty hafling by nature. He wore a large chrome belt buckle, to support his pants that read ‘FUCK’ in bold capital letters. He wore a grey button up shirt, half tucked into his waist, and a loosened tie. On top of all of this was a blazer jacket, a very dirty, dingy, stained blazer jacket. The stains appeared to be that of the same puke, along with several wine stains and what undoubtedly had to have been seminal fluids. It was hard to determine if it was his own or not. He wore broken prescription glasses, the thick framed ones hispters wear to be ironic, breaking past the meta to be like a double hipster or some shit. His ginger beard was wildly overgrown and his hair was damp and matted looking, pressed against the side of his face and head.

He wore an expression of joy on the surface, though it was plain to see he was putting up this front as to not reduce citizen moral. Tyler lived out on the streets on purpose, so that his people wouldn’t see him as someone above them. His modesty destroyed his perception of reality though. He thought his land to be impoverished, when in reality out of the eight major kingdoms, his was one of the wealthiest. 

Disillusioned, Tyler wandered the streets, smelling of bile, rambling about the impending war, as his citizens walked around him to avoid contact while talking away on their iPhones and sipping their starkly overpriced coffee drinks, on their way to their high paying jobs.

“People, no need to be alarmed, see I am one of you! I’m suffering from this economic down turn just like all of you!” People went so far as to take phantom phone calls just to avoid having to acknowledge his existence. 

As he went on ranting about the economy and the impending Mexican Winter a well-groomed man in a fancy suit approached Tyler. 

“King Tyler? Is that you? Holy. Shit. You smell awful.” The man said in a European accent. Tyler approached him, squinting his eyes, “Please, sir, don’t touch me. I’m here on business from your abandoned castle. Since you decided this foolishness was your best course of action as diplomatic leader, I’ve been acting as a quasi-king in your place, informing the public that you’re on a spiritual journey or some shit. By the way, your disgusting body pillow wants to know when you will be making your alimony payments.” 

Tyler lifted a hand and pressed a single, shit covered finger against the man’s mouth. “Shhh… they’ll hear us.” Tyler said in a whisper. The man gagged and pushed Tyler’s hand away. 

“Who the fuck are ‘They’?” he asked.

“The illuminati. They’re everywhere!” 

“Sir, might I remind you that you were the one that formed the illuminati, as part of your new democratic program, so yes, they are everywhere. You’re one, I’m one, hell, it is a twenty-five dollar fee to join. It’s harder to get into the Mickey Mouse Club.”

“But what about JFK? Who assassinated him then?” Tyler asked inquisitively, one eyebrow raised.

“You had his death sanctioned, m’lord.” The man in the suit was not amused, “Sir, we need you at the castle, there is business to attend to. It’s urgent, we don’t have much time before the Fuckboys from that damned mountain attempt a siege at our walls.”

Tyler looked down at his feet, entranced in deep thought. He gave himself a moment to reflect before looking up to his councilman and nodded in agreement. The councilman extended an arm in the direction of the castle as to lead the way. Tyler began following. 

“Hold it right there, Tyler.” A voice bellowed from behind the two men. A familiar voice. Tyler turned slowly to meet eyes with an old ally. His eyes lit up in excitement.  
“Bielski, you son of a bitch!” Tyler opened his arms for a hug, and strode hurriedly over to Bielski, as Bielski did the same. They embraced joyfully at this happy reunion. “Bielski, you look like shit!” 

It was true, Bielski was wearing rags, and had seaweed wrapped around his arms and torso, a small fish was ensnared in his mangy hair, still gasping for air. His head was gashed open from coming into direct contact with a large stone desk that had fallen out of his castle, alongside him.  
“You… uh, don’t look much better.” Bielski replied.

“Psh, I dress this way ironically.” Tyler said, rolling his eyes. 

“Listen Tyler, gather an army as soon as possible. The Fuckboys laid siege to my kingdom. My land is in ruin. They’re coming here next. We must gather troops and as many allies as possible. Mexican winter is upon us, we can’t afford to lose this battle. My citizens will not live in the shadow of Mount Fuckboy.”

“I agree, let’s ride on the morrow to the kingdom of Harrison Wisner. He is a powerful ally to have.”

The two stared deeply into each other’s eye for an awkwardly long period of time, cradling the back of one another’s head. Gazes fixated on the other. The two got their faces uncomfortably close. The thin European man stared wide eyed in disgust. Passersby formed a small crowd to witness two homeless looking men about to fornicate in the middle of Time Square, snapping photos on their shitty smartphones. 

“How do I quit you, Bielski?” 

“Ahem, men.” The councilman interrupted the two and they broke free from their embrace, clearing their throats loudly while looking around at the audience they had produced, “We need to get back to the castle. Now!”

The three men arrived at Tyland Manor by sundown and began the long arduous task of making a strategy, for tomorrow they would travel to Harrison Land.


End file.
